Divine decisions

Artemis

The Halls of Olympus had once been a place of reverence.

Now, they were a place of betrayal and mistaken trust.

Marble pillars climbed skyward like the spines of dead titans, cracked and weathered by years of war and silence. Where once sunlight poured through crystal archways, only dim moonlight filtered now—warped by soot, shadows, and the quiet weight of betrayal. The mural of Gaia had been defaced; its figure burned away in fury. Only fractured remnants remained.

And at the center stood Artemis.

Barefoot, Blood-streaked, and Unbowing.

Her silver tunic, once ceremonial, clung dark and stiff with dried blood—some of it was hers, most of it was not. Her Black bow remained slung across her back, untouched. The air smelled of ash and deceit. She could feel it pressing in. From the marble benches. From behind every divine gaze.

"You were our blade," Zeus intoned, seated atop his cracked throne, thunder curling lazily between his fingers. "Our hunter. Our executioner."

Artemis said nothing.

"You were given one task," Hera added, cool and venomous. "One target. One mortal."

"You speak of him like he's ordinary," Artemis replied softly.

Ares leaned forward, teeth bared. "He was your prey. A broken little man. And you let him walk away."

Artemis turned her eyes to him, ice-blue and dangerous. "He walked away covered in the ichor of other gods. I did not let him do anything."

"Yet he lives," Dionysus drawled from the shadows. "The Slayer of Gods. Alive. Breathing. Mocking us with every heartbeat, meaning you failed."

A ripple of murmurs stirred among the gathered gods. Poseidon's brow furrowed. Hermes tapped his boot anxiously. Even Demeter, long silent, looked away.

Athena stepped forward from her place near the center. "You all speak as if killing him was a foregone conclusion. As if any one of you could have done better."

Zeus's eyes narrowed. "This isn't about us; I would have crushed the pathetic mortal the moment we crossed blades."

"Of course," Athena said softly. "but luckily, you never went to the frontlines to have the chance."

Another silence. Long and suffocating.

Then Zeus raised his scepter, and the room dimmed with gathering power.

"You were the last to face him," he said, voice lowering like a hammer falling. "And you failed. Because of that failure, the humans rallied. Because of that mercy, we lost the Gates of Ivory. We lost the central reaches. We nearly lost Olympus."

"You lost Olympus," Artemis said, not flinching. "When you turned it into a throne of pride and called it justice."

Crack.

A jagged bolt of lightning split across the floor between them. The gods flinched. Artemis did not.

"You dare—" Zeus began.

"I do," Artemis interrupted. "Because someone must."

Athena stepped between them before the next strike could fall. "Enough."

Zeus turned to her, jaw tight. "You would defend her still?"

"I would defend reason," Athena said. "Blaming one goddess for the loss of the war is not justice—it's cowardice dressed in robes of law."

"She let him live," Ares snarled. "She failed all of us."

"She tried to kill him," Hestia spoke quietly. For the first time, all heads turned. The goddess of the hearth looked down, fingers folded at her waist. "something few would attempt to do and many failed to achieve." She looked directly at Ares, earning a growl from him.

Artemis didn't speak. Not yet. Not until the weight of the moment was thick enough to choke on.

Then Zeus raised his voice once more.

"Let the council vote. Let Olympus decide."

And as the gods shifted, whispering, deliberating—the flicker of memory burned hot behind Artemis's eyes.

The day she crossed him again.

--------------------

The valley was still burning when Artemis had arrived.

Ash drifted down like a second snowfall, blanketing the bones of siege engines and the charred remnants of banners—both godly and mortal. Trees at the edge of the battlefield stood as scorched silhouettes, leafless and broken. Somewhere in the haze, metal groaned under the weight of collapse. The screams had long faded.

Artemis walked in silence.

The forest to the north had been reduced to cinders. She had passed soldiers—from both sides—too wounded to speak, their eyes glazed over in the half-light. This wasn't a front anymore. It was a grave.

And she had come here to kill someone.

A mortal man who had become a myth among the human ranks. The one many gods spoke of in quiet tones: the man who would not fall to any opponent. She had faced him once before—when he was younger, more foolish and stubborn. He should've died that day. But he hadn't. She let him go.

Now the gods wanted him dead: this time, she would finish it.

The problem was that she was no longer certain if she could finish it.

Then she heard it—footsteps through soot, quiet but deliberate. She drew an arrow, turned toward the sound, and saw him step into view.

Older, Sharper, A blade honed by war.

The same brown hair, sweat-matted to his brow. This time, he had a piercing gaze that scanned the landscape as if he were already calculating the exit paths. His left gauntlet was cracked, a thin line of blood on his collarbone, but otherwise, he looked whole. Focused.

Artemis lowered the arrow but didn't relax.

"You again," she said.

His lips twitched, almost a smile. "You always seem to find me when the world's on fire."

"Perhaps you're the one carrying the match."

"Wouldn't be the first time someone thought so."

They stood in silence, the last breath before violence.

Then they moved.

No warnings. No taunts. Just a slight twitch signaling the start of the fight.

His blade slashed—a feint low, reversed high. Artemis spun, bow deflecting the strike, countering with a whip of her leg that he barely blocked. He surged forward. She ducked under his shoulder. Arrows clattered to the ground as she rolled, rising just in time to catch his next swing on the limbs of her bow.

Back and forth. Blow for blow. He was no longer the boy who had survived her. And she—she was no longer sure that killing him was even possible.

She'd never met a mortal like him.

A mortal that fought like her equal

The kind of equal that made her pulse thunder in her ears.

Her arrow scratched his cheek. His blade grazed her ribs. Pain bloomed, but neither flinched. Blood joined the ash in the air. They circled, breath ragged.

And then, it stopped.

They stood—five paces apart—weapons drawn but unmoving. Both bloodied and winded. But both still very much alive.

Artemis lowered her bow an inch. "would you just die already."

"Maybe next time," he said.

And then, to her surprise—he turned and walked away.

She didn't stop him.

Couldn't.

Not because she was being merciful. But because—for a single, breathless moment—she wasn't sure if it was possible to stop him.

--------------------

The memory dissolved, but the sting of it lingered—like a wound that refused to scab.

Artemis stood still in the Hall of Echoes as the gods bickered around her. Their voices overlapped, rising, falling, accusing. But none of it mattered. The verdict had already been written in the folds of Zeus's brow.

"She spared him," Ares snapped. "Even now, she refuses to admit it."

"I said nothing of mercy," Artemis replied coolly. "I fought him. He survived."

"Then you are weak," Hera hissed.

"She failed," Dionysus said, lifting a goblet conjured from thin air. "Let's not pretend otherwise."

"please," Athena's voice cracked from across the chamber. "You're angry that we lost, Fine. But don't blame Artemis for it; she fought so hard while others merely lazed on their thrones; we should be praising her, not condemning her."

Zeus stood, thunder gathering beneath his hands. "You forget your place, Athena."

"I remember it too well," she said. "We all watched Olympus crumble, not because Artemis failed to kill a mortal, but because we grew bloated with certainty that we could never lose. We fought like tyrants. We ruled like conquerors. We burned everything we were meant to protect. And now, when we are the ones on the losing side, you all seek to bury your guilt in her."

She turned to Artemis then. "You didn't lose this war. You fought harder than most against a opponent nearly unbeatable."

For a moment, just a moment, Artemis felt warmth behind her ribs. A hint of something almost like… gratitude.

But it died quickly.

Zeus struck his staff against the dais. The walls trembled. "This council finds Artemis, daughter of Leto, guilty of dereliction of divine duty, gross negligence, and treason against Olympus."

Athena stepped forward. "You can't be serious."

"She failed us," Hera said. "The punishment must be carried out."

"Execution," Ares growled, eyes alight. "It's long overdue."

"Enough." The voice was quiet, but it broke the air like glass.

Apollo.

He stepped from the shadows, his golden armor dulled from overuse, his bow across his back. "That's my sister. She bled for you. She never once stopped fighting. You shame yourselves acting like this."

Zeus's lip curled. "You'd dare defy me, too?"

Apollo walked to Artemis's side. "I will always defy arrogance."

Then Hermes appeared beside him, adjusting his gloves. "Always did prefer the losing side. Makes the victories more interesting."

And behind them, Hestia. Silent, torn, but radiant in her conviction.

Zeus raised his hand to strike—but Artemis was already moving.

The wind howled as she slipped through the pillars, Apollo firing blinding light into the sky. Hermes vanished in a blur, reappearing behind the guards with a flash of silver. Hestia ignited the great brazier at the center of the hall, forcing the gods back from the roar of its heat.

"GO!" Apollo shouted, deflecting a spear of lightning with a barrier of light.

Artemis ran.

She sprinted through the great halls of Olympus—past cracked mosaics, through hanging gardens turned wild, and across bridges that trembled with thunder in her wake. The mountain groaned. The sky howled. The gods shouted behind her.

But she didn't look back.

Hermes caught up to her on the spiral stairs that wrapped around the Peak. "Nice night for treason."

"Shut up and move," she hissed.

They reached the edge of the Sky Gate—where the clouds parted like curtains over a sheer drop into the mortal world. Apollo and Hestia arrived right behind her.

Artemis turned back once.

Athena still stood at the doorway, alone, watching the group flee from afar.

"I won't be able to go with you; my curse makes me unable to defy Zeus's orders," the goddess of wisdom whispered through eyes full of tears. "But know that I don't blame you either."

Then Artemis leapt.